Sleeping Arrangements
by FeanorusRex
Summary: Having noted the egregious lack of Fëanor/Nerdanel fics from Fëanor's point of view, as well as the lack of bed sharing fics for this pairing, I took it upon myself to resolve both these things.


The sleeping arrangements were absolutely, positively _not_ Fëanor's fault. There was no way that he could have foreseen that the cave Nerdanel and he were planning to spend the night in would be unable to be found, a cartographer's faulty calculation, not his.

He was equally blameless for the weather; in the absence of a cave they decided to sleep outside, a plan which had succeeded had it not rained, a torrential downpour which soaked the companions along with all their supplies.

And when they had managed to walk through the terrible weather to a rather shabby inn, no actions on Fëanor's part had resulted in the fact that the landlord, woken up by their repeated knocks, could only offer them one room- with one bed.

Fëanor could have told the innkeeper who he was- for surely, wet and road worn he did not appear as a prince of the Noldor- and used his high station to secure better accommodations, but he knew that Nerdanel would be furious at this churlish behavior, and he accepted the given room without complaint. The bed itself was not so bad, it was the fact that it existed stubbornly in the singular, rather than the plural.

He offered, of course to take the floor, but Nerdanel asked him why he would do such a thing, as their bedrolls are soaked through from the rain, and this would be quite unpleasant and unconducive to sleep. Surely he was as exhausted as she?

"Well _yes_ ," he answered, "But we are not, I mean that it is not proper that we should share a bed." While journeying in the wild they often sleep side by side, but on separate bed roles, not together-

"I care _not_ , Fëanor!" She answered, climbing into the bed. "Insist on being prudish if you wish, but do it silently so that _I_ at least may rest." She pulled a pillow over her head, ignoring him, and proceeded to sleep.

Fëanor deliberated- silently as she had asked. Finally, mostly in the interest of proving her wrong- he was not prudish, he laid down, as far away from her as possible.

But sleep was harder to come by than he expected. Firstly, Fëanor had not realized how much one moved when falling asleep: turning over, adjusting of blankets, things hardly noticeable when he slept alone, are now seized on by his mind, and Fëanor is sure that his every action disturbed her. He resolved to stop shifting altogether, and commanded himself: _sleep._

However, he is not only bothered by physical discomforts. Surely, _surely,_ it would be easier to sleep if he was sharing a bed with a female relative, or an unrelated maiden, with someone whom he did not have decidedly romantic feelings for. But he is sharing a bed with Nerdanel, and thus his feelings are there- unwelcome, ridiculous- nonetheless.

He had loved her, with all the fiery passion of youth ever since their first meeting, when one of his first days apprenticed to Mahtan, as he worked, a red haired maiden, some senior apprentice, came up to him, scrutinized his project, and announced, "Your technique of chiseling is faulty."

"I can assure you," Feanor had replied, stung, "that my technique is perfectly adequate."

"Nay. If you were to hold the chisel in your hand thus," Nerdanel took the tool from him and demonstrated a different hand hold, "You would achieve much more leverage."

"See?" And she smiled at him archly, and departed, leaving Fëanor embarrassed, determined to match her quality of work, and completely in love and wishing to see her again. While he was young then -and still is- he knew his own mind, and he knew even then that he wanted to wed her or none.

After listening to the conversations of other apprentices, he learned her name- Nerdanel- and that she often undertook journeys. Thus Fëanor contrived to encounter her by chance on the road, and finally after several fruitless attempts, he finally did. He asked if he could join her on her sojourn, she agreed, and they were friends from then on.

But friends and only that. He still did not speak his true feelings, and would never do so. Not because of their differing stations; he cared not that Nerdanel is a smith's daughter- he would gladly wed her tomorrow, in front of all the Noldor if she wished- but because if he were to admit his feelings, and speak of how brightly his spirit burned for her, if she did not feel the same, he could never face her again. He had asked her, casually, very causally if she thought that she would ever wed, and she had found it hilarious, being as young as she was, as they both were, and said what kind of question is that, are you proposing? And he said that he was not, he was only asking, and left the conversation at that.

He was content to only be her companion and not her spouse, and his other feelings were easily ignored, most of the time. But when he was in a situation such as this, reminded that they would never share a bed as anything more than friends inconvenienced for a night, they were harder to forget.

 _Sleep,_ Fëanor told himself again, and eventually he did. What little was left of the night passed uneventfully. He woke, with aching muscles from his lack of movement. Feanor had half hoped that Nerdanel would wake him, and passionately declare her love for him, and he would take her in his arms and- well in any case, naught of that sort happened.

Nerdanel stood before the room's mirror, combing out her hair while considering out loud the best way to reconnect with their planned route.

Fëanor was only half listening. Instead he was distracted by her hair- she so seldom wore it loose, which he understood of course, long flowing hair is not practical when working in a forge- but now it tumbled down her back in a tangle of red, gleaming where Laurelin's light caught it.

"You have very beautiful hair," he stated, transfixed.

"Hah!" Nerdanel replied, not turning, still combing, "More like nigh impossible to detangle."

"Nay, truly, it is so unique. I have seen none like it and it brings to mind of tongues of fire, intertwined with spun gold. I understand that it is not sensible that you wear it down while smithing, but it is still lovely." He stopped speaking and debated the relative merits of never doing so again.

This drew Nerdanel's attention, and she ceased combing and gave him a very odd look. Fëanor might praise her handiwork- and he had done so often in the past- but she herself he has never spoken of. "I...thank you, Fëanor. That is most kind."

Nerdanel resumed speaking of their journey, and Feanor attempted to cover his embarrassment- _Tongues of flame? Spun gold? Who would say such things?_ \- by collecting their supplies. They resumed their journey- the remainder of which was pleasantly free from inclement weather- and she never again mentioned his compliment, not even to tease him with.

She had forgotten the incident, he hoped fervently. And yet, he did notice that she left her hair unbound more and more often, when she visited him at the palace, or when they met at her home, even on their journeys. And some part of Fëanor dared to hope.


End file.
